


Soup's On

by mokuyoubi



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Finale, Pre-Slash, Soup, Will coming to terms with things, and you squint, if you're hannibal lecter, kind of, so there's that anyway, that is not a marinade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 14:35:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6156756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mokuyoubi/pseuds/mokuyoubi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for the prompt: Post cliff, Will gets sick and Hannibal makes and feeds him soup for the first time since the soup in Italy.</p>
<p>He is decidedly, understandably, hesitant to eat it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soup's On

Will wakes in stages, lying in bed for sometime after. Slowly he begins to distinguish between the sounds in his dreams and those in the waking world--the whistle of the wind outside and the gentle creaking of the house, the ticking of the clock on the wall, and Hannibal moving around in the kitchen. 

They’ve been living off a lot of simple, easy to assemble meals. Salads and sandwiches, scrambled eggs and toast. Will runs into town once a week for groceries and usually picks up a bunch of canned soup and frozen vegetables, instant mashed potatoes and rotisserie chicken. Hannibal turns up his nose at it all, but he isn’t really able to stay on his feet for more than a couple of minutes at a time, so his cooking is out of the question.

And yet, Hannibal is clearly cooking now. Water running, something hissing over the heat of the stove, the rhythmic _snicksnicksnick_ of a sharp knife against the chopping block. Whatever it is has a rich, savoury scent that permeates the room, and it smells delicious.

Rolling onto his back, Will blinks his eyes open and gazes blearily out the window. There’s no saying what time of day it is. The sky is a dark steel, snow flurries falling and melting on the gazebo roof outside his bedroom. His limbs feel heavy and his head full of fog. Right now Will wants nothing more than to roll over in his warm cocoon of blankets and go back to sleep, but now that he’s awake he can’t ignore the pressure in his bladder.

He shoves aside his sheets, sucking in a sharp breath at the cold air hitting his skin, and grabs his robe from the foot of the bed, hurrying to wrap himself up in it. When he stands, he is gripped by a wave of dizziness and has to catch himself on the post of the bed. There’s that familiar, unpleasant disconnected feeling that comes from a head cold, as though he’s floating above his own body.

After breakfast he laid down, oddly fatigued and with just the beginnings of a tickle in the back of his throat. Over the course of his nap it’s exploded into a full on sore throat, clogged sinuses, pounding headache. He stumbles into the bathroom, leaning against the wall as he relieves himself. When he catches his reflection in the mirror over the sink, he winces. His skin is sallow, dark circles under his eyes, nose bright red.

Just his fucking luck. He’s finally starting to feel human again. The stitches in his cheek have dissolved, and he’s able to move his arm again without screaming in agony and now he’s got the fucking plague. He blows his nose, and it doesn’t seem to do a whole lot to relieve the pressure or allow him to breath again, just makes his head throb and vision go white around the edges. 

Fucking great. He searches through the medicine cabinet and finds a bottle of cough syrup that has miraculously not expired yet, and doses himself before making his way into the kitchen.

“Smells good,” he mumbles, voice rough. He’s so stuffy he can’t really discern what it is he’s smelling, but whatever is, it’s making his stomach grumble.

Hannibal stands at the stove, wooden spoon in hand, stirring the contents of a saucepan. He glances at Will over his shoulder, and doesn’t seem surprised to find he looks like death warmed over. “It will be ready in a moment, if you would like to take a seat.”

Will gathers his robe more tightly around him and pulls out a chair from the table, sliding into it. “You’re not supposed to be cooking,” he says. He has to clear his throat. “You’re not even supposed to be standing unless absolutely necessary.”

“As the attending doctor, I feel adequately capable of assessing my condition,” Hannibal murmurs, bent over a mug of steaming liquid. “I have not overexerted myself, and I had guessed, rightly so, that you were feeling under the weather. Drink.” He places the mug in front of Will on the table. “Licorice root tea with chamomile and honey.”

Will takes a sip and pulls a face. “I usually rely on the healing power of bourbon.”

Hannibal quirks a small smile, and Will looks down at the dark liquid, chest tight. “Perhaps I could be persuaded to prepare you a hot toddy later this evening. But between your pain medication this morning, and the cough syrup you’ve just taken, it is best not to further tax your liver.”

“How--” Will begins, scowling, and Hannibal reaches out, knuckle brushing against the corner of his mouth and coming back bright orange. Will licks his lips reflexively, rubs the back of his hand over his mouth, and takes a hasty drink. “Whatever. The tea is fine. I mean--it’s nice, thank you.”

Hannibal dips his head in acknowledgement and goes back to the stove. Will doesn’t miss the way he favours his left side, the way he holds his right arm close to his body. His shoulders are rounded forward, no sign of his normal perfect posture. “I could have just heated something up.”

“Nonsense,” Hannibal scoffs. He sounds morally offended, and despite himself, Will feels his lips curling upward faintly in fond amusement. He comes back to the table, bowl in each hand. One before Will, one at the place across from him, where Hannibal takes his seat. “Spicy Garlic Soup.”

Will stares down at the bowl of creamy-looking soup, sprinkled in fresh cilantro and garnished with a slice of lime. He toys with the spoon, turning it idly through the soup, picking up a spoonful of soft onion and diced chicken, and lets it drop back in the bowl with a plop. He puts the spoon down and rests his hands on the table top.

Hannibal looks at him from under his fringe, bent over his bowl, paused with his spoon halfway to his mouth. “Is there something the matter?”

Just inhaling the soup from this close, Will can feel the snot loosening. He can actually breathe through his nose for the first time since waking, can smell the tang of the lime and the umami of the garlic, along with the sharp burn of some sort of hot pepper. He can almost taste the richness of the butter. “It smells good,” he says again.

“It will taste even better,” Hannibal says. He looks more concerned and curious and less like he’s admonishing, but Will bristles nonetheless. “The medicinal ingredients will help soothe your throat and clear your sinuses. Garlic and onion have antiseptic and antibacterial properties, and the vitamin C in the chilis and lime juice will hasten your convalescence.”

“Awesome,” Will says, tone dry. He considers nudging the bowl away, just to get his point across, but then reconsiders, because there’s no call for childish behaviour. All the same, he can’t help but conjure to mind the last time Hannibal served him soup.

Hannibal makes a small _ahh_ noise, and when Will chances a glance, he looks far too astute. “I assure you, I have no intention of eating any part of you this evening.”

“Well, that’s a relief. I can sleep easy.”

“This particular soup would not make a very satisfying marinade, at any rate,” Hannibal says. Will snorts and rolls his eyes. Hannibal’s words are playful, but there is something hesitant about his expression. He is uncertain, and the discomfort it causes him becomes Will’s discomfort, watching him.

Will is being foolish. He knows it. He needs to pick up his spoon and eat his goddamn soup, and not get into this this evening. He’s not ready for this conversation. He’s not sure he ever will be. He gets as far as the picking up the spoon part, but the rebellious voice in the back of his mind just won’t allow him to bring it to his mouth.

“Were you just going to...scoop out my brains?” he asks, surprising both of them. So they are going to discuss it, then. Will bites his lip against a muttered curse and closes his eyes. When he opens them, Hannibal is regarding him, face shuttered. He puts down his own spoon and folds his hands together in his lap.

“I could have taken only enough to taste,” Hannibal says. “You could have survived that way.”

Will narrows his eyes. “But you wouldn’t have.”

Hannibal gives a curt shake of his head. “No,” he says, matter-of-fact. “I would not have allowed you to continue to merely exist in that condition.”

Will lets go of his spoon and it falls against the rim of his bowl with a clatter. Hannibal looks up sharply. “Am I supposed to be _grateful_ for that, Hannibal?”

“I cannot travel back in time to correct my mistakes,” Hannibal says, “as you know all too well.”

“Mistake,” Will echoes. He means to be scathing, but his anger is already dissipating. He takes too much effort to stay angry at Hannibal for any length of time. His own mind is constantly betraying him, forgiving far too easily, and right now he just doesn’t have the energy for it.

Hannibal splays his hands, a helpless gesture encompassing so much--guilt, sorrow, regret, and, above all, inevitability. “I can only care for you now as you deserve, and hope that in time, I can earn your forgiveness and your trust.”

Will sighs deeply and closes his eyes again, for a brief moment. Then he picks up his spoon, scoops up a mouthful of soup, and shoves it in his mouth without allowing himself to think about it any longer. He doesn’t really taste that first bite, but he says, “It’s good.”

They are both silent for a time, eating their soup. After a few bites, the spiciness clears up his sinuses that he can really taste it, and Will has to grudgingly admit to himself that it actually does taste good. In between bites, he sips from his tea, which goes slippery down his throat, coating and soothing. 

“Thank you,” he says, barely more than a whisper. In the quiet of their home, it is rings out with all the things Will isn’t ready to say yet.

Hannibal’s smile is a soft, incongruously shy thing, and heat blooms in Will’s chest. “You’re welcome,” he says.


End file.
